


In The Aftermath

by innerglow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brother Feels, Gen, Grief, Heartache, Loss, M/M, Swan Song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 02:11:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innerglow/pseuds/innerglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place directly after Sam fell into the pit and deals with how that loss affects Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lullys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lullys/gifts).



> unbeta'd. all mistakes are my own.

‘Get up.’ 

_‘C’mon.’_

‘Get _**up**_.’ 

Dean tells himself the same thing over and over again, but his body refuses to comply. There is no strength left in his bones, no will to carry on. If he get’s up and if he leaves this place, it becomes all too permanent.  

_‘Permanent.’_   

Dean thinks about this word and he lets his swollen tongue roll over it in his mouth. He tastes the blood still pooling on his tongue, from the broken teeth in his jaw and then he feels sour bile rise into his throat. It feels like an almighty tsunami in his chest and it’s hungry for his cries. The cries that dangle in his throat like fall leaves on a tree. With just enough wind, with just the right pressure-- _they’ll break **free**_ and they will bear his soul on this field.  

They will expose him. They will tell of his heartache. His unbearable, nothing can ever fill this void, fucking razor sharp--heartache.  

“ _Sammy._ ” Dean chokes out as he lets his head fall forward. And it’s coming, those cries in his throat. They’re wrapped around his tonsils, swinging back and forth like destructive wrecking balls.  “Sam-- _Sammy_.” He whispers again as his entire body slumps, his knees digging into the soil that swallowed his Brother whole.  

And then Dean starts digging, his fingers clawing at the dry dirt under him. He scratches and claws, barely making any headway, his nails pulling and ripping from the desperation of his strokes. His fingers are screaming from being rubbed raw, but the pain does not match the one in his chest.  

Nothing could match that pain. 

_Nothing._   

It’s like his entire life fell into that pit. His heart, his voice, his soul--it’s all gone, right into the same hole that took Sam. And then Dean laughs, because he’s trying to dig his way to Sam--but now he’d settle for a 6ft deep hole to sleep in. Because, _yes_ , he made promises of an apple pie life--but that’s the last fucking thing he wants.  

‘It doesn’t mean anything without you, Sammy.’  

‘ _Nothing means anything_.’ 

‘Not without **_you_**.’ 

Dean focuses on that last word and the world spins around him as he hears an incredible scream. It’s piercing and horrible, it is the most wrecked scream he’s ever heard. And in the back of the head he’s praying that the screams stop, because he can’t bear to hear them right now. The sorrow that echoes behind them is too great and his heart feels like it’ll crush under the weight of them.   

But then he feels his jaw move and the world comes back into focus. And then he knows--knows that it’s _him_ that’s screaming. _Him_ screaming into the emptiness of the graveyard around him. _Him_ screaming with every ounce of strength he can muster. Screaming until his chest is heaving and his voice is raw with the jagged and anguish-drenched sobs that never stop evacuating his mouth.  

And when Dean thinks its almost over, his insides fill with more--it’s endless.  There is no bottom to this well of sadness that eats at him. And he’s drowning in it, fucking _drowning_ \--and he has no strength to fight it. He has no _reason_ to, his _reasoning_ is **_gone_**. The glue that held him together all these years is missing and he’s falling apart at the seams.  

He is in _**ruins**_.   

The grief inside of him, it carves him empty and the echoes of his loss rattle against his ribcage. The only thing that is left of his Brother, is the wreckage across his face. The gashes that will leave scars, the bones that will ache for the rest of his life, the teeth that will go unreplaced--they are the echoes of Sam’s last breaths.  

They _prove_ that his Brother **_existed_** , that he _saved_ the world.  

He’s reaching for his face and simultaneously reaching for his Brother. He needs to feel the cuts, the blood and the tenderness of his violated muscles. Needs to reassure himself that this is real, that the void inside his chest is true and just as horrible as it feels.  

He’s fingertips away, when he realizes he’s no longer alone.  He turns and see’s Castiel, the angel he thought was dead--now standing good as new beside him. And he’s so goddamned happy to see his friend, even if his brain is twirling around the many reasons as to why or how he could still be alive. He’s thankful in this moment. ‘Maybe there is a God.’ Dean thinks to himself.  

Cas stares down at Dean and his expression is sad and pitiful. As though he can see and feel the bleeding heart beneath Dean’s ribs. They exchange a silent and pained look and then Cas is reaching for him. And before he can even process it, he can feel the weight of his wounds lifting from his body. And as they lift, his stomach sinks as low as it can go. 

He’s going to be _sick_. 

“ ** _No!_** ” Dean hears himself muttering defiantly as he arches away from Cas’ fingers. Cas furrows his brow at him, he doesn’t understand what he’s just done. He can’t even begin to grasp the utter magnitude of the homesickness that claws its way through Dean’s aching gut.  

“Dean.” Cas says, trying to reason with him. But Dean is trying to stand as a horrendous growl of agony weaves its way through his lips. And the utter strength of it has him falling back to his knees, onto the very dirt he had just clawed himself halfway through--but his fingers no longer remember it. Just as his face no longer remembers the ridged knuckles of his Brother’s throws. 

“No, no, _no_ \--” Dean cries as he reaches up to his face, his hands trembling with the fear of not feeling the blood that had just soaked his face. The fear is so thick, he can’t bear to feel his cleaned skin and his hands drop back into his lap as his shoulders shake with grief-stricken sobs.  

“He’s _gone_.” Dean whispers as he looks over to the spot Sam had fallen. No one would know it by just looking, the ground lies undisturbed. It’s like it never happened. His face doesn’t even bear a single scar in Sam’s name. Cas stole those from him.  

And he’s fucking angry. His fists are wrapping around the dry grass and he’s yanking it out of the earth as he shrieks out a never ending string of undecodable profanity. At the tail end of his burst of rage, lies a hollowed out sob, “ _Sammy!_ ” And it echoes and echoes through the graveyard and comes back and punches him square in the chest--knocking the breath from his lungs.  

It’s so powerful--his mouth gasps for oxygen, but his lungs never fill. The echo in his chest throbs like an open, bleeding, and infected wound. And he’s hyperventilating, his heart is racing and his lungs burn with starvation. Feels like he’s dying and fuck he hopes that’s just it--he’d rather die here, right next to Sam, then to have to get up and physically walk away. He doesn’t know if he can muster the courage; doesn’t know if his legs can bear the weight of the grief that possesses his body.  

“Son.” It’s Bobby’s voice that has him coming down off his mountain of sorrow. 

“Bobby?” Dean’s voice is filled to the brim with disbelief. He saw him die in front of his eyes. He doesn’t understand how-- and then Cas comes into view and understanding fills him whole.  

Bobby’s fingers squeeze at Dean’s shoulder and he’s mumbling how they should go. How, ‘It’s over now, son.’ and ‘Wow, that fucking idgit pulled it off!’. It’s a never ending string of words that make sense and then disintegrate against Dean’s ears--nothing filters through. 

“Dean?” Bobby questions with worry in his voice.  

Dean doesn’t acknowledge his name. Instead he mumbles a broken and barely audible, “Sam...” And Sam’s name is tangled in a web of wet sobs that make Dean’s chest whine with overuse. But he can’t stop and he doesn’t know if he ever will. 

_This is **too** much._   

Bobby’s got his hands under his armpits and he’s pulling Dean up, but Dean fights him off and tells him to go fuck himself. To hell with this world and everything in it, because the color in his world has just been completely drained. And fuck anyone who dares to try and move him from this place.  

Because-- 

“Sammy’s _down_ there. You can’t _see_ him, Bobby, but Sam _is down there_. My baby Brother, Bobby-- he’s -- Lucifer’s got him and I _can’t_ Bobby. I won’t **_leave_ ** him. _You can’t make me_. Don’t make me, _please_.” Dean shouts and pleads with his fists rolled up in Bobby’s flannel, like he’s a life preserver in the middle of an endless ocean. 

Bobby is looking at Dean and he’s got his palm cradling Dean’s cheek as his eyes fill with an incredible sadness. And Dean focuses on that sadness and thinks, ‘You don’t understand, Bobby--you can’t--you just _can’t_.’ 

And then his world goes black as his body falls slack in Bobby’s arms.  

Castiel stands behind him, his fingers against Dean’s neck as he says, “This is for the best.”  

And Bobby can do nothing more but nod his head gravely. 

 

**

 

Dean wakes and disorientation fills his entire body through and through. He is not in the graveyard anymore, no--he’s in Bobby’s living room. And just that realization alone has his stomach lurching into his throat with panic and an overwhelming sense of sadness.  

He’s up instantly and he’s running for the bathroom, spilling his guts (mostly stomach acid) into the toilet. His back heaves and heaves as he chokes and gags everything his body can muster out of his mouth. And when the waves are seemingly over, he somehow reassembles himself into a standing position. He’s standing and simultaneously wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, when he catches his reflection from the corner of his eye.  

And suddenly, he’s sick again--but it’s a different kind of sick.  

_Homesick._  

His stomach clenches in on itself and he can feel the back of his eyes burning. His lip trembles as he leans in closer to the mirror behind the sink. He stares into the reflection that is his own, but it’s barely recognizable.  

_This is not how it’s supposed to be._  

The bruises and cuts, are gone. The splintered bones in his jaw, don’t ache when he moves them. And as he runs his tongue over the ridges of his teeth, all there, he can’t help but mourn for the spaces that _should_ be there.  

He blinks his eyes and he does so easily; yet, his eyes should be swollen and black. He shouldn’t be able to see at all. He should be having to ice the entirety of his broken face.  

What he see’s and what he feels do not match.  

And the difference between the two creates a gaping sinkhole in his chest.  

He touches his cheek and feels a broken sob rattle up the back of his throat. It feels like it will be quiet, but it rumbles like a violent storm within his chest and it explodes out of him with an uncontrollable intensity.  

“Sa-uhh-mm-y!!” He’s pleading as he pulls at his cheeks and cranes his head--desperate for a single blemish on his skin. A stain that will remind him and prove to the rest of the world, that his Brother died for him (for all of them). A simple scar that will be the billboard of the incredible sacrifice that has been made.  

But he doesn’t find a single fucking thing. 

Not _one_. 

 

**

 

A couple hours later Dean finds himself in the junkyard with his arms around the only person he can really call ‘family’ anymore. Bobby tightens his arms around Dean and whispers, “Go find Lisa, son.” 

Dean can’t help it as he stiffens at the name that is not Sam’s and it takes everything in his body to stuff down the rising tide of tears behind his eyes.  

“Do it for Sam.” Bobby adds, sensing Dean’s inner fight. “You promised.”  

And Dean knows that Bobby’s right. He did make that promise and he’ll keep it even if he’s dying inside. Even if he’ll never be able to fully appreciate it, he can try--for Sam.

_Always for Sam_. 

 

**

 

He’s driving down a highway that he’s been down several uncountable times before. It’s pavement and white lines, decorated with mile markers--the same as every other one he’s ever travelled down.  

But this time, it’s _different_.  

He’s white knuckling it, trying with everything that’s left inside of him to ignore the incredible emptiness beside him. Of the passenger seat that no longer homes a warm body.   

And the thought of Sam sends a cold chill through him, causing his jaw to clench.  He switches the heat on instinctively and waits for his trusted baby to warm him up. Praying that the heat will soothe the ache in his chest, if only for a little while. Perhaps the heat will distract him from the lack of body heat next to him, at least he prays it will.  

He catches his reflection in the rearview mirror and his fingers tighten around the steering wheel. His skin is perfect and unmarred. It’s as if yesterday never happened. As though Lucifer and Michael never existed beyond the pages of a book. As though apocalypses remained in the movies. As though none of it was real, not even his Brother’s triumph over the devil, who wore him well.  

That’s when he hears it, it’s so faint at first, but as he focuses on it--it’s impossible to not hear. And then somehow, he _smiles_ , because the legos he pushed into the heater vent are still there after all this time.  

And suddenly he’s flashing back to those lazy summer days that he and Sam spent in the impala. How they tinkered with their toys, having wars with Sammy’s army men and Dean making houses out of legos. The impala was their permanent fort, a clubhouse for just them. No one else was allowed. Their carved initials made it so.  

Sam’s army men figurine is still crammed in the ashtray and if he focuses really hard he can hear a 5 year old Sam laughing as he crams it there. And for the first time in days, he feels a weight lift in his heart. Because Sam is all around him, even the seat is still indented with Sam’s weight. The leather on the door is still slightly worn, where Sam would always rest his elbow. The floor mat is still scrunched up, as it always is, because of Sam stretching his impossibly long legs.  And as Dean is looking down at the floor, he sees a coke can rolling back and forth. It is Sam’s. And for the first time, it doesn’t annoy him that Sam left his trash in his car. He’s actually thankful for it. It’s another physical reminder that Sam existed. 

And it is these little things that he must hold onto, because they are all that he has now. They are the only things that make his Brother real, making it count. And even though the scars that should be there, aren’t--he’s got a car full of memories, much like a wall with pictures in a normal house. And they tell the story of how they’re Brothers, of how Sammy was and only ever could be--his, even if he only got to keep him for a little while.  

“I love you, Sammy.” Dean whispers to himself and to the shadow of his Brother in the seat next to him.  And he smiles because he knows deep down, no matter how much it hurts--that he is _lucky_.  

He’s lucky, because his Brother was _Sam Winchester_ \--the man who fought and fell to _save the world_ (and **_him_** ).  

And for that he doesn’t need a scar on his face as evidence.  

No. 

Because the name woven into the very fabric of his being, is proof enough. Sam is alive, in _him_ \--in his _heart_.

And that is where he will carry him for the rest of his apple pie life, just as he promised. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> all feedback is very much appreciated. ;)


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